


Like A One-Two Punch

by littledaybreaker



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledaybreaker/pseuds/littledaybreaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Semi-out Brandon Bollig is traded to the Flames in order to support still-closeted rookie Johnny Gaudreau and ends up fucking him, which isn't exactly how that was supposed to go, especially not with feelings involved. Five months later, they finally figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A One-Two Punch

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No Denying Something So True](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4390337) by [littledaybreaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledaybreaker/pseuds/littledaybreaker). 



> SO.
> 
> This is a direct sequel to "No Denying Something So True", taking place at the beginning of the 2014/15 season. It's kind of a beast and I don't know if anyone is going to read the entire thing, so if you're just here for the sexy part, it starts about 3/4 of the way down--around 3000 words in (yes, for real). 
> 
> I am about 99% sure I'm not done with this universe/concept and I have a couple of deleted scenes (yes, for real...) that I will eventually post, so I'm sorry in advance.
> 
> Title for this one is from Arkells' "Come to Light".

Brandon likes to pretend that he barely thinks about Johnny during the summer.

 

He had always intended to call, to make contact with him somehow. He’s just so busy with friends and family and an unexpected reunion with Kelsey (strictly platonic, but convenient for the purposes of convincing people that he’s straight and has definitely never, ever hooked up with a teammate) that it evades him. And to be fair, it’s not like Johnny was banging down his door, so it’s no big deal. A one time thing for both of them, probably for the best. Once he had realized that Johnny was _definitely_ a virgin, it had psyched Brandon out, and maybe he hadn’t reacted in the most reasonable way possible—actually, he had reacted in completely the opposite way, considering that he’d left a bewildered, naked Johnny alone in his hotel room and refused to return any of his calls. So much for being his gay ambassador, or babysitter, or whatever.

 

Johnny had tried to call. All summer long he’s been thinking about what happened, checking his phone an infuriating number of times an hour, jumping every time it buzzes and generally driving everyone around him insane. 

 

He texts a couple a times, calls him once or twice, but after four or five one word replies, he gives up. After the way Brandon treated him when it sunk in that he was a virgin, maybe it’s for the better, but somehow it still stings. Especially when he stumbles upon all those photos of Brandon and that girl, as if Johnny never even mattered. 

 

By the time it’s time to board the plane and go back to Calgary in September, Johnny’s anxiety has reached a fever pitch. It takes all his willpower (and half a Xanax) to even get out of the car, and he spends the entire plane ride feeling like he has to go to the bathroom. He thinks there should be a rule: if you’re going to take your teammate’s virginity, it should be guaranteed that you can’t break their heart after. 

 

Brandon resolves to talk to Johnny when he sees him. It’s not that he doesn’t know how it looks: the sex, the freak out, the rush with Kelsey. But he’s not a dick, it was just all so overwhelming. It was easier to cut the cord, so to speak, than it was to face up to what happened, to his feelings, to Johnny’s feelings. It became a huge mess, and he’s sure he can fix it, sure that Johnny will understand.

 

No sooner has the service come back on Johnny’s phone (complete with a Canada flag emoji) than a text from Brandon pops up. “you land? need to see you.” He’s got half a mind to ignore Brandon like Brandon ignored him, but he’s been waiting so long that he barely thinks it over before he’s texting “where & when?” He can’t help analyzing it when Brandon’s reply comes and he wants to meet at the same restaurant they had brunch at almost four months before. It probably means nothing, he rationalizes. They don’t know the city that well yet and going somewhere familiar just makes sense. If Brandon cared, if any of it meant anything, he’d have done this sooner. Johnny tries to quell his little frisson of excitement and anticipation. Whatever relationship they have from this point forward will be strictly professional.

 

Brandon arrives at the restaurant half an hour early and orders a beer. He gulps it down in two mouthfuls, declining a second when the waitress comes back. She gives him a sympathetic pat on the arm and brings him one anyway. He sips it slowly, running through his planned speech in his head.

 

He rises when Johnny enters, waving him over. Johnny looks smaller, more vulnerable, as though he retreated in on himself over the summer. But his hair is still longish and floppy and his big eyes still make Brandon’s heart beat faster. He looks beautiful, and Brandon wants to tell him as much, but he refrains. It is all too tentative, too precious. He’s never been bad at this before and he’s scared to consider what that means.

 

He settles for giving Johnny a firm handshake, asks him the cursory questions about his summer. Johnny isn’t making eye contact but Brandon allows it for now. _Let him adjust,_ he thinks. It can’t be easy on the poor kid. It certainly isn’t easy on Brandon.

 

All Johnny can think is that Brandon somehow got handsomer over the summer. He’s all tanned and his arms look amazing. Johnny is fixated on them, thinking about what it would feel like to have them holding him down now. He shivers but tries to play it off, looking everywhere except at Brandon. He talks animatedly about his summer, about fishing and camping and the pool. Brandon seems more reserved, quieter, listening more than he talks. Johnny leaves his questions about the Instagram girl hanging in the air, but when Brandon does talk it’s about his niece or about Chicago. It shouldn’t, but it pisses Johnny off. How dare he take Johnny’s virginity, run off, and then spend his summer being Instagrammed with some generic blonde girl without so much as an explanation?

 

It’s bubbling up inside of Johnny, the anger, and he’s trying not to let it boil over. He knows it’s not healthy, keeping things like that inside, but it’s all he knows how to do. 

 

Finally, though, just before Johnny completely explodes, Brandon awkwardly clears his throat. Johnny jerks his head up to stare at Brandon’s forehead. “We should talk about what happened,” Brandon says tentatively.

 

He’d arrived early for this exact purpose, to work out what he was going to say. He’d had it all planned out, the perfect blend of contrition and confidence, plus a game plan for what’s next for them. It would be a fail proof plan, if only what comes out of his mouth matched up, which it doesn’t. What comes out of his mouth is this: “I regret fucking you.”

 

No sooner has he said it than he realizes what he says and feels an immediate pang of regret. He focuses in on Johnny’s devastated face and his own heart drops. “John,” he says softly, “John, that’s not what I meant…” 

But the damage is already done. Johnny flings himself out of the chair and bolts out the door. Everyone stares at him and then turns to glare at Brandon, who throws his hands up in apologetic defeat. This, he thinks, is the worst possible start.

 

Johnny is still not speaking to Brandon two weeks later. At practice he stays close to Sean, and if Sean isn’t available, he all but hides behind Mark. Brandon doesn’t think it’s fair that Johnny got the captain on his side. But then again, Brandon had one job: to look out for Johnny. He failed spectacularly at that, and, he feels, he probably deserves anything that happens because of it.

 

He knows he is expendable in absolutely every other way, so he keeps his head down and does his drills and focuses on being the best possible player if he can’t be a good mentor. Sean is still giving him the time of day despite whatever Johnny may have told him, so Brandon gleans little bits of information by trying to be in the right place at the right time. There isn’t much—Johnny is settling in, he found a group of non-hockey guys to hang out with, he’s doing online classes ‘for fun’. Nothing interesting, at least, not to Brandon. Until one night in the locker room he overhears Johnny’s low voice in the shower: “Thomas asked me out, but I don’t know…if Brandon apologizes…you know?” 

He hears the shower shut off and scrambles with his bag to leave undetected, a plan already formulating in his mind.

 

Johnny knows it’s stupid to turn Thomas down. He’s nice, he’s hot, and perhaps most valuably, he doesn’t know the last thing about hockey. Thomas is nice, almost perfect, even. But he’s not Brandon, and if for that reason alone, Johnny can’t bring himself to say yes. He knows it’s not likely that Brandon is going to apologize, knows that it’s silly for him to be sitting around waiting for it, but for the moment, he can’t help it.

 

It takes a couple of days, but Brandon formulates a plan, this time enlisting Sean’s help to ensure that even if he fucks up, he has a buffer. 

 

When he walks into the locker room before warm ups on “go day”, in mid-November, Sean is waiting in the doorway. “Bad news,” Sean says, “That Thomas guy is up in the family box.” 

 

Brandon unceremoniously drops his bag, narrowly missing Sean’s foot. “I thought you said he wasn’t going to date him,” Brandon says, his voice unintentionally accusatory. 

“Cause he said he wasn’t,” Sean says, sounding hurt. “Also, watch my foot. Please.”

“Please,” Brandon mocks him crankily. Sean ignores this, making busy work of tying his skates. “Get dressed,” he says helpfully. “If you’re late they’re going to scratch you. Again.”

“Thanks, tips,” Brandon says sarcastically, pulling things out of his bag, stomping around the locker room. He knows he’s being childish, but he figures he’s earned that right. 

 

Once Sean is gone, he dawdles through the rest of getting dressed, making sure he’s completely alone before slipping a note into Johnny’s cubby. All he can do is try.

 

Johnny scores two goals and they win the game three nothing. Everyone swarms him—everyone except Brandon, who stands away from the group, idly chatting to the ref. It shouldn’t make Johnny’s chest hurt the way it does. He’s going on a late sushi date with Thomas after this and then they’re going to spend the night together. With any luck, all that stuff with Brandon will soon be a distant, if fond, memory.

 

He has good intentions to hurry out of the locker room, but somehow he ends up being the last, which is probably for the best. When he pulls his jacket out of his cubby, a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor with it.

 

“ _I didn’t mean how I said it,_ “ it says in Brandon’s handwriting. “ _I got freaked out. I felt like I was taking something I shouldn’t have from you and like it was wrong because I felt like we couldn’t date. But the thing is, John, I can’t stop thinking about it. About how it made me feel and about how much it kills me that I fucked up. It sounds a little crazy, but right now I can’t see myself with anyone except you. I don’t know how it can work, I just know that I want it to. And if you do, too, we should do something about it. I’m sorry._ ”

 

He reads it over several times, running his hands through his hair. “You’re the worst,” he says out loud, shoving the note into his jacket pocket. “The worst ever, Brandon Bollig.”

 

“What took you so long?” Thomas asks when he finally emerges from the locker room. It doesn’t sound accusatory, but it annoys Johnny nonetheless. He shrugs away from Thomas' proffered arm and replies, “Ummm, skate malfunction." He knows he can get away with that because Thomas doesn’t know the last thing about hockey, no matter how many times Johnny has tried to explain it to him. Thomas gives him a slightly patronizing smile, the one he gives him when Johnny talks about hockey, as if he’s just a kid playing pickup. In some ways it’s nice that Thomas doesn’t understand hockey, but in other ways it’s irritating. It makes Johnny feel like maybe they don’t have as good of a connection as he thought they did.

 

 

The note burns a hole in his pocket all the way to the restaurant. He’s more than happy to let Thomas dominate the conversation to talk about work. He’s doing some sort of important deal closure and they’re swamped and he should have been at the office when he came to the game. “But you did great, really,” he adds. Johnny hums noncommittally, reaching into his pocket, feeling the edges of the note. Thomas is still droning about his work deal thing when they pull up to the restaurant. It’s giving Johnny a weird anxious feeling in his stomach. He swallows it and lets Thomas hold his hand as they walk into the restaurant, but he squirms away when he realizes how full it is.

“The fuck,” Thomas murmurs, and Johnny shrugs. “You know we can’t…” he says, and Thomas rolls his eyes. Johnny would feel bad about it, but he’s explained it over and over again. The last thing he needs at this point is some kind of scandal. He doesn't bother to apologize.

 

They sit in relative silence once they've ordered their drinks. Johnny knows that Thomas is still mad about the hand holding thing, but he can’t bring himself to care or even fake it. Not with the note burning in his pocket, anyway. 

After fifteen minutes of sitting in agonizing silence, Johnny finally says “I have to go to the bathroom” and bolts. 

He runs clear out of the restaurant and halfway down the block before his brain catches up with his body and he stops. He can’t run all the way to Brandon’s, that’s ridiculous. He takes a moment to catch his breath and then flags down a cab, giving the driver Brandon’s address without so much as a moment’s hesitation.

 

Brandon is half asleep when he hears his buzzer, and he grumbles a little as he finds his pants. Whoever is at the door is persistent, pressing it approximately a dozen times in the space of thirty seconds. “What? WHAT?!” he demands when he finally makes his way to the call box. 

“It’s Johnny,” Johnny’s voice on the other end sounds small and vulnerable. Brandon can’t unlock the door fast enough.

“It’s open,” he says, and waits with his heart pounding in his throat for Johnny to come up. 

 

Johnny all but flings himself into Brandon’s arms when he gets up to Brandon’s apartment. He wraps his arms around Brandon and burying his face in his chest, hugging him tight. 

“You got the note,” Brandon says dumbly—it’s all he can think to say. He wraps his own arms around Johnny, kisses the top of his head. Johnny nods his acknowledgement, but doesn’t lift his head. 

“I was an ass,” Brandon offers, and Johnny nods again. This time he lifts his head. “I shouldn’t have frozen you out,” he says. 

“You were scared,” Brandon says gently. “I shouldn’t have been such an ass.” 

“You were scared, too.” 

“I was,” Brandon admits, and tilts Johnny’s face up into his hand to kiss him. It’s a tender, gentle kiss, trying to convey his understanding of the fragility of the situation and his own feelings at the same time. It seems to work, because Johnny is kissing him back, reaching up to cup Brandon’s face. 

 

They stand in the doorway kissing for what seems like an inappropriately long time but is, in reality, probably less than five minutes. When Brandon breaks the kiss Johnny _whimpers_ , trying to get him to bring his head down. Brandon chuckles in spite of himself and shakes his head. “Don’t you want to come in?” he asks, voice husky from kissing. He runs his hands along Johnny’s sides, under his coat but over his shirt. Johnny shivers, nods, and Brandon makes quick work of sliding his coat off his shoulders. “I missed you,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Johnny again. “God, I missed you.”

“Let’s never do that again,” Johnny says, stepping out of his shoes and then closing the gap between them again. He slips his hands under Brandon’s shirt, running them over the strong, warm muscles of his back, leaning up to kiss him again. Brandon smirks, pulling Johnny backward, into the apartment and down the hall. He briefly considers taking Johnny into the living room before deciding that there was no need to be anywhere but in bed with Johnny right then. 

 

Once they’re settled in bed, though, there’s no need to rush. He takes his time exploring all of Johnny’s soft, warm skin, pressing kisses in the places he remembers Johnny likes—it’s been five months, but he’s proud to say he hits on all of them—discovering a few new ones along the way. Johnny reciprocates with gentle moans, with his hands all over Brandon’s back and shoulders. He’s whispering undetectable things to Brandon and Brandon is murmuring nonsense praise against Johnny’s skin as he works to remove his button down, taking his time. They’ve got all the time in the world and Johnny seems to be revelling in this the way Brandon is. He’s completely relaxed and focused. When Brandon lifts his head, he realizes that Johnny is watching him, so he makes eye contact and smiles. The smile turns into a full on beam when Johnny meets his gaze. “You’re still so beautiful,” Brandon says, and Johnny flushes. Nonetheless, he doesn’t allow his gaze to leave Brandon’s. “You are,” Johnny says, pulling Brandon’s shirt over his head. “More beautiful than I even remembered.” 

“Smooth talker,” Brandon mumbles, leaning in to kiss Johnny again. There’s a lot he wants to say and none of it feels exactly right for the moment, so he just kisses him, lets himself drown in the feeling of being with him. 

 

For awhile they’re content to lay there and kiss, relearning each other, hands running over bodies…and then Johnny’s phone buzzes in his back pocket.

 

He knows it’s Thomas demanding to know where he is, and he freezes. “I—“ he begins, trying to squirm out of Brandon’s grasp. Brandon, however, is one step ahead of him, somehow intuiting that yes, it is most likely Thomas on the phone, but no, Johnny doesn’t want to talk to him. “Let’s get your pants off,” Brandon murmurs. “They’re in the way.”

Johnny nods, lifts his hips, lets Brandon take his pants and boxers off and toss them away. He reaches for the waistband of Brandon’s pyjama pants, but Brandon brushes his hands away, shakes his head. “Lots of time for that,” Brandon murmurs. He kisses his way down Johnny’s chest, over his hips—taking his time there, leaving marks. If the guys in the locker room ask about them, Brandon thinks, he’ll be proud to admit that he did that. That Johnny is his. No more fucking around. He mouths over Johnny’s cock, enough to make him squirm, but he doesn’t linger there. Instead, he makes swift work of turning Johnny over and propping his hips up on a pillow. Johnny shivers with anticipation, remembering how good this was the last time. He’s spent a lot of time touching himself thinking about it, but he isn’t going to tell Brandon that just now. Not while Brandon is spreading his cheeks with his big hands. Not while Brandon’s tongue is swirling, lapping, and oh fuck—pressing inside of him. “Fuck,” he says breathlessly, burying his face in the pillow and trying to breathe normally. “Fuck, Brandon.” 

 

Brandon hums, swirling his tongue around Johnny’s hole and smirking in spite of himself. Johnny is so responsive, so _fucking_ responsive. Every time Johnny moans or whimpers or grips the sheets, Brandon’s own cock twitches in response. He palms at it, trying to relieve the pressure, laughing breathlessly when he pulls away from Johnny. “Shit, John, do you even know what you’re doing to me?”

 

Johnny rolls over, getting up on his knees, pushing Brandon’s pyjama bottoms down. “God,” he says, “look at that cock.” 

Brandon would normally snicker at that—because it’s endearing, not because he wants to mock Johnny—but Johnny has his mouth around Brandon’s cock, and the whole world is reduced to that, to them. He lets his hands tangle in Johnny’s hair, guiding him, but Johnny is doing a pretty good job on his own, paying special attention to the head and the sensitive spot on the underside that makes Brandon groan and twitch. 

 

He doesn’t want to come like this, though, so he reluctantly extricates himself from Johnny’s mouth. “Turn over,” he says, voice all husky from arousal, and Johnny does what he is told. 

 

Brandon takes a moment to appreciate Johnny like this—on his hands and knees, legs spread slightly, cock hard and pressed against his stomach, looking back at Brandon hungrily, his own personal porn star—and then, somewhat awkwardly, shuffles to the side of the bed to retrieve the lube.

 

On the bed, Johnny squirms impatiently. He’s almost painfully hard now, his whole body thrumming with arousal that is teetering on frustration. He is about to say something to try to hurry Brandon up when he feels first Brandon’s looming presence behind him, and then, just as suddenly, Brandon’s fingers pressed inside of him. 

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, head dropping down onto the mattress instantly, hands gripping the sheets. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Brandon smirks, crooking his fingers up the way he remembers Johnny likes, provoking a loud “oh!” from the smaller man. “So fucking tight, John,” he says appreciatively. “So fucking tight for me.”

Johnny nods against the mattress. “I—only you,” he says, hoping that Brandon gets his meaning.  
Brandon does. “Me, too,” he says. “I never wanted anyone else, not since I met you,” he adds, sliding his fingers out of Johnny and replacing them with his cock before Johnny has time to register the loss. Johnny arches back, hands flailing in space, trying wordlessly to convey that he wants—needs—Brandon’s lips on his. Brandon pulls almost all the way out, kisses him as he pushes back in, revelling in the way Johnny shudders against him. 

They fall into a rhythm, slow and careful. There’s no need to rush, and he wants to feel—and wants Johnny to feel—everything. But it’s not enough, not enough, and Brandon pulls out (provoking a whine from Johnny) just long enough to flip them over so Johnny is on his back. He pulls Johnny in close and Johnny wraps his legs around Brandon’s waist as Brandon slides into him again. This is much, much better. This is perfect. When he locks eyes with Johnny, Johnny holds his gaze, and they stay like that for a moment until Brandon leans in to kiss him, and it clicks—that strange, unplaceable feeling—he’s falling in love. 

“You’re beautiful,” he tells Johnny through gritted teeth, thrusting _just so_ , making Johnny’s legs tighten around his waist, his eyes flutter shut.  
“…you,” Johnny pants. He’s gripping the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are white, he’s thrusting back almost frantically against Brandon, and fuck if he isn’t _right there_. “You, you—fuck.” He closes his eyes, focusing all his effort on breathing. Brandon is confused a moment before it clicks and he absolutely beams. “Good boy,” he praises, stroking Johnny’s cheek tenderly. “Good boy, you can touch yourself.”

Johnny gasps in relief, murmuring a grateful “thank you” as he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes firmly, in time with Brandon’s thrusts. It only takes a few more thrusts, spurred by the sight of Johnny all laid out with his hand on his cock, before Brandon is coming, groaning out “ _fuck,_ John.” 

Once Brandon has come, Johnny’s hips stutter desperately, pleadingly, his hand on his cock still moving quickly, and Brandon remembers this, too. Leaning in, he says against Johnny’s ear, “Come for me, baby,” and Johnny comes apart, shouting Brandon’s name, shaking, the edges of his vision going white before he collapses in a boneless heap against the mattress, still trembling. 

Brandon kisses his temple and makes quick work of grabbing a warm washcloth and cleaning Johnny off, taking his time, pressing tender kisses along the warm, flushed skin. When he’s done and he crawls up next to Johnny he realizes he’s already asleep, one hand curled into a loose fist up by his head, eyelids fluttering slightly. “I love you,” he says almost silently, testing it out. He knows Johnny can’t hear him, but it feels completely right, and he swears Johnny is smiling in his sleep as he settles down next to him.

It’s not going to be easy, and Brandon knows that. There’s a whole world of uncharted complications, of hoops they’ll have to go through, but they got this far—they’ll get through whatever comes next, too. Pressing one last kiss, feather-light, to the top of Johnny’s head, Brandon wraps him up in his arms and drifts off into his own dreams.


End file.
